


I Only Stick with You

by Violet_Jones



Series: Backdrifting [4]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arguing, Future Fic, Jealous Ian Gallagher, Jealous Mickey Milkovich, Light Angst, M/M, Making Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-08-11 10:06:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7886968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violet_Jones/pseuds/Violet_Jones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three months after "Backdrifting" (AU: Canon-divergent from ep 305) - Ian & Mickey each see their jealousy flare up, and they learn how to work out their arguments.</p><p>Firsts: Fight. Make up sex. 69.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Only Stick with You

**Author's Note:**

> I had a lot of fun writing this part. The angst isn't too heavy at all.

Ian and Mickey are at their favorite diner one early Sunday afternoon a few months into their relationship, having what basically amounts to brunch (though Mickey refuses to call it that, because it’s too gay) when they have their first real fight. Well, their first fight since they were stupid teenagers who used their fists to punctuate their words.

Everything is going fine and normal, and they’re conversing quite amicably, until Ian gets a text message and starts acting in a manner that Mickey immediately dubs ‘highly suspicious.’

Ian pulls his phone up to his face after it chimes, and his eyebrows make an unmistakable jump into his orange-ass hairline, before his mouth slightly quirks, then turns into a mild frown. His expression goes through a strange mixture of about twenty different emotions and reactions, and Mickey can’t get a read on what it means, which is not something he can abide.

Ian types something back briefly and hastily, locking the screen before letting the phone drop back onto the table with a thud, and he grins at Mickey in what the latter would describe as an unnatural sort of way. Something definitely just made Ian uncomfortable, and if it was family or work related, he would’ve just blurted out whatever it was to Mickey.

Ian opens his mouth to continue their interrupted conversation when his phone chimes again. He flinches this time, like he didn’t expect a response back to whatever he just sent. He debates whether to ignore it, but knows that will only make Mickey’s decidedly inquisitive demeanor flip a switch to enable full on police interrogation mode. In order to avoid a shit storm, he grabs the phone and grins at Mickey again, more apologetically this time, and reads the new text. His eyes widen before he can stop them though, and as they involuntarily dart to Mickey’s, the phone is snatched out of his hand and their gazes lock.

> **Ryan** : What’s up, gorgeous? Wanna meet up tonight?
> 
> **Ian** : Can’t. Sorry.
> 
> **Ryan** : Come on. . . I wanna feel that big hot cock inside me. You know you miss this ass.

Before Ian can react, Mickey’s already read the last line.

“What the _fuck_!” Mickey asks in a clearly pissed off raised voice, flicking his eyes back to Ian.

“Mick. . .” Ian begins to explain, but cuts himself off as Mickey starts typing back a text reply from Ian's phone. “Hey!” he says louder, swiping at Mickeys arm trying to get the phone back. Mickey raises it above his head and continues typing while looking up at it, fending Ian off with his other hand. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Stop!”

Ian goes from pissed to absolutely indignant when he yanks the phone back and reads what Mickey sent to his former friend-with-benefits.

_‘He has a boyfriend now, bitch. Lose this number or you'll lose a fucking appendage when I hunt you down.’_

"Jesus, Mickey, I could've fucking handled that without your assistance! Which I didn't fucking ask for, by the way. And I could’ve also managed it without resorting to threats of violence. You're such an asshole!"

"You defending that prick to me, right now? This _RYAN_? Who the fuck is he, huh?"

Ian rolls his eyes. "I'm not fucking doing this right now. This is so irrelevant."

"Irrelevant? Some fuckin' douchebag, whose contact info you still have in your phone, _by the way,_ prompts you to come fuck his ass with your huge dick, that he's obviously enjoyed more than once before, and it's irrelevant? The fuck is wrong with you?"

They’re getting loud now, and people are starting to look over, which given the content of the argument is pretty fucking embarrassing on a scale of one to ten. And it had to happen in public, at a place they frequented, no less.

"Nothing's wrong with me, Dickface,” Ian replies heatedly, but in a lowered voice, “you're the one blowing this out of proportion. _He_ texted _me_. I didn't text him. In fact I told him I couldn't meet up if you bothered to read the previous interaction before you freaked out, and I was about to tell him I was in a relationship now, before you did it for me without my consent. We haven't been together very long. I didn't exactly send out a mass text to every dude I ever banged saying, 'Hey everybody, don't even try to get on this again, because I'm with someone now and just thought I should warn you for some reason,' like some weird narcissistic asshole."

"Oh, so you've been such a fucking slut that you'd have like legions of dudes to notify not to booty call you again?"

"What the _fuck_ did you just say to me?” Ian asks, eyes flashing, and he pauses to stare hard at Mickey, mouth slightly agape. “No, you know what, actually, FUCK YOU!" He shouts the last part, gets up from the table and storms off and out the door.

Everyone is definitely staring at Mickey now, as he sits there dumbfounded. He almost relents and calls out to Ian as the door is swinging shut, but he doesn't. He's not gonna act like a bitch, even though he’s fairly certain everyone in the vicinity knows he’s the asshole in this situation.

He sighs, muttering, “Goddammit,” under his breath.

Luckily, they’ve already eaten most of their food, and Mickey wearily wipes a hand over his face and glances around for the waitress, signaling her for the check. He reaches for Ian’s fruity-ass mimosa and swallows the remainder in one big gulp.

When he steps out of the diner, he idles on the sidewalk, wishing he had a cigarette for the first time in as long as he can remember. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do. On the one hand, he knows it’s not Ian’s fault that some old hook-up is trying to get with him again. Not like he can blame the guy for trying. On the other hand, why would Ian keep that guy’s number stored in his phone still, after months of things going so well between he and Mickey? And exactly how many other dude’s numbers did he have stored in there? Plus, he had apologized to that guy. Like he was actually sorry that he couldn’t meet up with him. The emotions that Mickey hadn’t been able to decipher on Ian’s face stuck in his mind. Had this dude been more to him than he was letting on?

Ian had told Mickey about all of his major relationships by then. He’d assured Mickey that he hadn’t been with anyone seriously in the years since he’d been back in Chicago. The guy who’d dumped him in Austin had sent Ian into a spiral of genuine depression, and when he’d come out the other side of it, he hadn’t wanted to trust anyone again until Mickey came along. And maybe it made Mickey a little insecure that maybe Ian was only fooling himself that he actually trusted Mickey, because of their history. Maybe he was just mistaking the comfort of their past connection for true faith now in the present.

So he stands there hesitating, the pavement damp with shallow puddles after a morning rainstorm, debating whether or not to go to Ian’s place or his. He’s not sure how to do this whole making up after a fight thing. He’s never cared before. Should he give Ian some space? Should he make sure that he himself has calmed down enough not to unintentionally lash out when he tries to talk about it? Or will Ian assume the worst if he doesn’t follow him home, and think they’re just done? What if he texts that guy back and says he changed his mind? It would all be Mickey’s fault because he didn’t know how to act like a proper boyfriend. Because he’s nearly 30 fucking years old and he’s still a goddamn emotional cripple.

He ends up walking around the neighborhood for a while trying to clear his head, or see if he can just figure it out at least. Being with Ian isn’t usually hard. It’s been easier to grow accustomed to than he ever would’ve though possible, even. He doesn’t know what to make of this hurdle. Now that they’ve had one little fight, have they broken some kind of dam? Is it going to be a common occurrence now. . . these explosions of anger? Ian is the one person he doesn’t like being angry with. It feels wrong.

He suddenly realizes he’s on Ian’s street. He’s been walking in ever-expanding circles until he reached his block. He decides the confrontation shouldn’t wait.

He walks up to the entryway to Ian’s building and buzzes his apartment.

“Yeah?” he hears through the intercom after a minute.

“It’s me,” Mickey says sheepishly.

He hears the loud buzz of the entrance gate go off and breathes a loud sigh of relief, yanking it open and making his way up. He takes the stairs. Ian’s only on the fourth floor, and he wants to prepare himself.

Ian’s left the door cracked open for him, and he steps in, glancing around, but Ian’s not in the living room. He takes his wet shoes off and leaves them by the wall next to the door after he closes it, then makes his way toward the bedroom. That’s where he finds Ian, hastily folding laundry on his now made up bed that they’d left messy earlier when they’d gone to find sustenance after a morning of lazy sex and watching stupid shit on Netflix.

Ian doesn’t look at him as he comes in, and a tense silence envelops them as Mickey tries to think of what to say first.

“I’m – ” Mickey begins, but Ian immediately cuts him off.

“Don’t say you’re sorry,” he utters tersely with his back still to Mickey.

“You don’t want me to apologize?”

“It’s not that I don’t want you to, it just always seems wrong coming from you. I don’t like it.”

“Then what the fuck am I supposed to tell you when I _am_ actually sorry?”

“See, you’re not actually sorry, you just think that’s what I wanna hear,” Ian says accusingly. “You don’t mean it, so just don’t.”

Mickey let’s out an exasperated breath, “Ian, will you put down the fucking clothes and look at me.”

He waits for him to heed his request, crossing his arms and watching as Ian jerkily snaps everything up and throws it in the basket, then kind of tosses it over before turning around to face him finally.

“What? Am I wrong?”

“Yeah, you are. I _am_ sorry about what I said to you, cuz I didn’t mean it. You know I don’t believe in the idea of sluttiness, even. It’s bullshit, and I don’t care how many guys you fucked before I came around again. So fuck you if you don’t want me to tell you I’m sorry. That’s not fair.”

“Why’d you say it then?” Ian challenges.

“Because I was fuckin’ angry! Heat of the moment bullshit. It happens, and I’m sorry.”

“You were jealous.”

Mickey looks away, somewhere out the window, and then down towards the floor, “Yeah, I guess I fuckin’ was, so fuckin’ sue me.” He looks back to meet Ian’s gaze. “Some dude sent you a fuckin’ sext right in front of me. I’m not made of stone.”

“You didn’t have to get so upset, and you didn’t have to take it out on me. We could’ve even just had a laugh about it, but you had to make it into something serious, which it wasn’t, because I had no intention of sleeping with that guy again.”

“Had, or have?” Mickey asks quietly.

“Have! I have no intention of sleeping with Ryan, or anyone else! I thought you knew that, but apparently you don’t.”

“I thought I did, but I’m not some fucking psycho asshole who’s gonna go searching through your phone to see who you’ve been talkin’ to either, and then it turns out you still have numbers in there for dudes you used to fuck, like a fuckin’ back-burner of dicks just waiting for me to fuck this up, so you can hop right back on ‘em!” Mickey raises his voice more and more with the rant, and now he’s yelling.

“That’s what you fucking think?” Ian yells loudly now.

“The fuck else am I s’posed to think? Why didn’t you just delete ‘em? It’s been over three months. I thought you trusted me!”

“I do trust you! You’re the _only_ person outside my family that I actually trust. I don’t even trust my fucking friends 100% of the time!”

“That’s a fuckin’ lie! If you trusted me not to fuck this up, you wouldn’t still have any contact with any of those fuckin’ guys you used to bang. Why would you?”  


“I don’t! You’re fucking mad at me because I don’t obsessively clean out the fucking contacts on my goddamn phone! Do I need to surrender it to you so you can review all my text interactions and numbers dialed in the last few months? Because it sounds like _you’re_ the one who doesn’t trust _me_!”

“That’s not–”

“Don’t say it’s not true! That’s exactly what you’re actually saying right now. Fucking listen to yourself!”

“Ian, I don’t know how to fucking do this! I don’t know how to do any of this, okay? _You_ wanted this with me. _You_ forced me into this relationship, so congratulations, you get to fuckin’ deal with my shitty emotional reactions that I don’t even fully understand. I fuckin’ warned you, and don’t say I didn’t.”

“I _forced_ you into a relationship? Fuck you! If you don’t wanna be with me, then don’t. I’m not your fucking slave-master. You have free will. If it’s too hard for you, then fucking leave!”

There’s a prolonged silence, thick with emotion, as Ian’s booming ultimatum settles in the room like a heavy, unwelcome presence.

“I saw the look on your face,” Mickey then says softly.

“What look?”

“You said you were sorry you couldn’t meet up with that guy, and you looked sorry. And you looked. . . I don’t know, I saw a lot of meaningful feelings all over your face in that fuckin’ diner when you got that message. Like he meant somethin’ to you.”

And it dawns on Ian why this whole thing has stuck in Mickey’s craw so badly. He’s questioning Ian’s loyalty to him. He’s misreading Ian’s emotions for him, and thinking they’re for someone else.

Ian sighs audibly and steps toward Mickey, reaching out and cupping his hand around Mickey’s neck. “Mick, you’ve got it all wrong. All the feelings I was having in the diner. . . _all_ of them. . . were about _you_. I was uncomfortable because that text was like a fly in the ointment, and it came out of nowhere. I was just confused and weirded out, because I was with you, and because I _only_ wanna be with you.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really! I wouldn’t lie to you. And I _do_ trust you. I know you won’t lie to me. If you ever did, I’d be fucking blindsided and devastated.”

“And you’ll delete that fuckin’ number?”

“Yes! I don’t give a shit about Ryan. If you want me to go through and fucking scrub my contacts of all that old shit, I will. I don’t care about any of them.”

“Is that a weird thing for me to ask you to do?”

“No. It isn’t. But I expect you to do the same, then. Any dudes you fucked that you have no other reason to ever be in touch with need to disappear from your phone.”

Mickey shrugs. “Deal.”

Ian kisses him and they proceed to have kind of awkward sex. Afterwards, it seems like there’s a gulf between them.

Mickey isn’t sure why he doesn’t really feel better. It feels like the situation hasn’t really been resolved yet, but it does seem like something between them is kind of different. Like some kind of weariness, even sadness has seeped into their union.

Ian wants to get over this little bump in the road with Mickey, but it’s like he’s triggered these emotions in him that bring out every little insecurity he’s had about himself in relationships to the surface. Feelings he never wanted to associate with Mickey. He knows it’s not all fixed, and he’s not sure exactly what it’s gonna take to repair the rift between them.

  


* * *

  


Ian and Mickey are out at a gay bar, having a perfectly pleasant evening, the second time they get into a fight. It’s merely a couple of strained weeks later, and the same exact premise acts as the catalyst, but the roles are reversed, and the fragile facade of their tentative truce comes crashing down around them.

They haven’t really been out and public since their big blow-up, and have only hung out a handful of times. They’ve been trying to forgive each other for feelings they can’t help, but it hasn’t been so simple.

They’ve been posted up at the bar, nursing cocktails, and talking bullshit for over an hour, when Ian gets up and heads to the restroom. As he’s making his way back, he sees a tall, hot blond guy talking with Mickey. He’s leaning in too close, giving him the bedroom eyes and everything. All the body language on his part is screaming desire, and when Ian’s focus shifts to Mickey, he sees him grinning back at the guy a little too softly and knowingly for his liking. They look. . . _intimate_. Ian remains frozen in place for a moment, watching as they chat and smile, and he builds up a big head full of steam, before he intervenes.

He approaches them from behind and clears his throat loudly, crossing his arms and arching a severe eyebrow at Mickey, his lips a hard line.

"Ian!" Mickey says in a surprised sort of way, like he'd forgotten he was even there, and it makes Ian even more livid. He won't even look at the guy to his left, occupying the space between Mickey and the barstool Ian had been sitting in not 10 minutes prior. Ian doesn't even respond, just continues staring Mickey down.

Mickey is starting to freak out a little internally, because he's never seen this icy cold version of Ian before, and he can tell it's not going to be a pleasant evening anymore unless he can diffuse this whole mess right now. But apparently his mouth is hellbent on making it worse. . .

"Uh, this is Troy," he says, giving the most awkward semi-smile of all time and gesturing to the dude Ian is so pointedly ignoring.

"Hey, man," Troy says, trying to offer a hand out to Ian.

Ian's gaze still hasn't moved from Mickey's face, and he doesn't acknowledge the gesture, but does utter out a terse, "Pleasure."

'Fuuuuuuuuck,' is basically Mickey's only inner dialogue at this point. He has no idea what to say next. He wants to just disappear by fading into the mahogany sheen of the bar top behind him.

Luckily, Troy is neither an asshole, nor a dummy, and he decides it's probably best to just immediately extricate himself from whatever it is that's going down. He's clearly not getting laid by Mickey tonight, maybe never again, by the looks of things.

"Look, um, I'm gonna leave you guys to it. Congrats, Mickey. Looks like you finally decided to take an actual shot at things with someone. Good for you." He claps him on the shoulder and bids a hasty retreat.

Ian finally speaks. "What the fuck was that?"

"What do you mean? Apparently, it was you being an awkward asshole to an acquaintance of mine for no reason," Mickey says. He immediately knows it's the wrong tack to take, but it's like he can't help himself sometimes. Maybe he likes seeing the shoe on the other foot for once. Ian is clearly jealous as fuck, and it's kind of awesome, even though he's also scaring Mickey shitless a little bit.

"An _acquaintance_? _Really_? You were practically eye-fucking each other for like a full 5 minutes."

"I wasn't. . . I did not. . ." Mickey stammers, shaking his head, shrugging his shoulders, and gesticulating wildly with his hands.

"And you're acting weird as shit! You can't even speak properly! What the fuck is wrong with you? You said you never had a boyfriend before me! How many times did you fuck that guy, huh?"

‘Uh oh,’ Mickey thinks. This is a touchy subject with Ian. He has this unreasonable amount of pride over the fact that he's pretty much Mickey's 'One and Only.' Not that the same could be said about Mickey in regards to Ian, but it's this sticking point with him nonetheless. . . That no one has ever known Mickey like he has, or gotten in so close or so deep, or even just fucked him anywhere near so many times. It's Ian's own personal small victory.

"What's that got to do with anything?" Mickey can't stop saying the wrong thing. Like, he _cannot_.

"Are you fucking serious right now? How. Ma-ny?" He says the last part in slow, over-enunciated syllables, demonstrating the extent of his outrage even more.

"A few," Mickey shrugs again, looking away.

Ian repeats himself in exactly the same tone and cadence, slamming his hand down on the bar for emphasis, "How. Ma-ny?"

"I don't know, alright?” Mickey turns back to him. “I don't keep a log in my goddamn diary!"

"How long?"

"How long what?"

"Jesus Christ, Mickey! How long did you fuck him for?"

‘Dammit.’ "I don't know, okay? Like a few months. It didn't mean anything."

"Really, cuz from where I was standing, it looked like you weren't trying very hard to get him to stop hitting on you. In fact, it kind of looked like you were flirting back."

"I was _not_ flirting. I do not flirt. _Ever_. I was just trying to let him down gently. He's a nice guy."

'Jesus, Mickey, why? Why are you trying to get yourself murdered by your boyfriend tonight?' Ian looks like he might actually punch him in the face.

"I. . . I just can't even deal with this right now," Ian sputters, and turns to walk away.

This time, their second 'Ian storms out' fight, Mickey follows him, calling out his name. Ian pretends like he doesn't hear, but he slows down once he gets outside the club. ‘Great, so now we can make a scene on a sidewalk.’

"Ian, will you please stop overreacting? You're acting way worse than I did over that whole booty call text message debacle."

Ian spins around, looking absolutely furious, "Yeah, because that was a fucking text message! There was no physical evidence present to get you even more riled up. You think Ryan wasn't hot as fuck too? You would've actually started a brawl if you'd seen him coming onto me in a bar, where we were on a fucking date, and I was softly laughing and whispering with him while your back was turned for 30 fucking seconds."

"Yeah, that's a good one, bringing hypothetical scenarios into this stupid fucking fight right now. Nice try."

"Are you _trying_ to get me to hit you? Like, what the fuck is your problem? All you're doing is pressing my buttons when you know I'm fucking right."

"Look whose threatening now, everybody!"

"Okay, I'm walking away now. Call me when you're through being the fucking dipshit asshole of the universe, okay?"

"Really, bitch? You're just gonna run away?"

Ian's back is already turned and he's putting distance between them as he mutters, "I can't fucking talk to you like this."

Mickey opens his mouth to yell some more, but realizes it's probably finally time to hold his tongue. He doesn't know what possessed him to push Ian so far, but he fucking did, and now he has to deal with the fall out.

"Goddammit," he says under his breath, watching Ian walk away, and wiping a hand over his face. He worries his lip, before turning around and heading back into the bar for shots. Fuck it, he needs to be drunk right now.

  


* * *

  


Ian’s been tossing and turning on top of his bedclothes for a couple hours, with some dark indie techno music playing softly from his bedside table while he stares despondently at the ceiling, the walls, and everything in his room. His pipe is sitting next to him on the bed. He’s taken a few puffs off it intermittently, the buzz dulling the edges enough to ensure he doesn’t lose his fucking shit. The lingering stench of pot is being pushed around lightly by the low setting of the ceiling fan above his bed, and he thinks about lighting incense, but he doesn’t feel like walking over to the dresser and dealing with it.

He closes his eyes and thinks of just turning in for the night, when he hears a knock at the door, and his eyes snap back open. It can only be one person, and Ian hadn’t actually been expecting him to give in and show his face anytime tonight. He hears the knocking again, and this time it just keeps going incessantly. Ian rolls his way off the bed and pads through the darkness of the rest of his place toward the door, checking the peephole to confirm the visitor. He unlatches the chain and unlocks the door, opening it partially and taking in Mickey’s form. His head is hung low, right arm leaning up against the jamb as he leans into the frame, looking at his feet.

Ian swings the door wider, and Mickey looks up at him with the saddest expression in the world, and his arm slips off the frame as he stumbles back a little.

“You’re fucking hammered,” Ian says.

Mickey ignores the observation and replies instead, “I thought about fucking Troy.” He pauses, but keeps staring straight at Ian. “I didn’t. I figured it would just be to spite you, and I knew I didn’t really wanna do it, so I left.”

Ian sighs and steps back. “Come in.”

Mickey staggers past him and yanks off his shoes, throwing them on the floor along with his jacket and making his way to Ian’s bedroom. Ian shakes his head and locks back up, stopping in the kitchen to fill up a glass of water for Mickey’s drunk ass, before following him.

He finds him sitting on the side of the bed in his underwear with the pipe to his lips, lighting the bowl, a trail of clothes left in his wake. Ian crosses over to where he is, takes the pipe from him after he finishes taking the hit, and hands him the water.

“Drink this.”

Mickey takes the glass from him and chugs it all down before setting it down on the bedside table closest to him. They look at each other for a long, silent moment, before Ian breaks the spell.

“Go to sleep.”

“But–” Mickey begins.

“But, nothing,” Ian interrupts. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow. You’re not in any state, and I’m tired.”

“Okay,” Mickey says, shoulders slumped.

“Get up for a second.”

Mickey obeys, and Ian turns down the covers and holds them up so that his boyfriend can slip in. A small smile passes Mickey’s lips at the gesture, and he reaches out to quickly caress Ian’s hand as he lays down. Ian tucks him in like a small child and makes his way around the room turning off the lights, before taking off his sweatpants and settling in on his side of the bed. He turns the music down a little bit more, but doesn’t turn it off.

He can’t help keeping his back to Mickey. Everything feels so wrong right now. He needs to be overtaken by sleep so that these thoughts and feelings will stop plaguing him, or else he feels like he might scream in frustration. This isn’t what it’s supposed to be like between them. They’re supposed to understand each other. Right now it’s like they don’t even get each other at all. Nothing makes sense.

Mickey rolls toward him in a fog, inching closer until he’s molding his body to Ian’s back. Ian stiffens at first, and thinks about telling him to back off, but then he realizes that he needs to be touched. He’s confused and he’s upset, but he still needs to feel Mickey’s presence, so he relaxes back into him, and let’s Mickey slip a hand under his shirt to softly stroke his stomach.

Ian closes his eyes and just as he’s finally drifting off to sleep, he feels Mickey kiss the back of his neck softly as his arm clings to him tighter.

Mickey is the first to wake in the early morning, the call of nature beckoning him out of his slumber, and he groans as he stumbles toward the bathroom, wetting his lips and hating the dryness and the taste of stale liquor in his mouth. His vision is swimming and his head is in disarray, but he manages to find the toilet and doesn’t bother shutting the door before taking a piss. He splashes a few handfuls of water onto his face for good measure and finds some headache pills in the medicine cabinet, washing them down with a few more handfuls from the tap.

He crawls back into bed, and spots Ian’s pipe still sitting on the nightstand on his side, so he grabs it and fishes Ian’s stash out of the drawer. Weed is the cure he needs to help him get back to sleep and beat this shitty hangover that’s setting in. He glances over to Ian’s side of the bed and sees it’s barely 6 AM. He definitely needs to get a few more hours in.

The sound of the lighter sparking stirs Ian momentarily.

“What are you doing?” he asks groggily, turning over onto his back, squinting and rubbing at his eyes adorably.

“Nothin’,” Mickey croaks. “Go back to sleep.”

He watches fondly as Ian goes back under without another word, his mouth slightly agape, and his brow furrowed in confusion.

Mickey wonders what the fuck is happening between them and how he’s gonna fix it. He hates the way they’ve been with one another lately. . . Like they’re on tenterhooks, walking around each other on eggshells. It’s not a good feeling, and not how it should be when they’re together. He knows enough to at least get that much. He always knew he’d be shit at relationships, and here he is proving himself right.

He takes a few more tokes, and turns back to facing Ian, putting a hand on his arm, and settling his head just above the crook of his neck, and it’s not long at all until he drifts off again.

The next time he wakes up, he’s alone. He strains his ears for signs of movement in the apartment, but hears nothing. His bladder is throbbing again, so he rolls back out of the bed and makes his way back to the bathroom. As he stands at the toilet, he notices a post-it note on the mirror.

_‘Out for a run. Back soon.’_

Mickey can’t help but feel relieved by the reassuring message Ian left for him to find, even if it is kind of weird that apparently they’re now a couple who leaves notes for one another.

He makes his way to the kitchen and downs two full glasses of cold water in rapid succession. His head feels a lot better than it had earlier, but he’s still got that achy, shitty feeling in his body reminding him that drinking excessively is bad, and making him take silent, impossible oaths never to do so again. He rifles around in the fridge, and pulls out some deli meat and cheese, shoving messy handfuls into his mouth. He spies a raspberry yogurt and gets into that too. He can’t imagine he’s gonna get to sit down and eat anything before he has to talk all this shit out with Ian.

Once his hunger is decently curbed, he hops in the shower and lingers under the hot spray for a lot longer than he actually washes anything. By the time he’s crawling back into bed, in a pair of Ian’s sweats and one of his plain white tees, he hears the door and braces himself for the confrontation he knows they need to have.

Ian enters the room with his shirt off, because he’s rubbing it over his face like a towel, and his pale skin is glistening with the sheen of sweat from his run, a light dusting of freckles across his shoulders still present from the end of Summer.

He looks at Mickey once he lowers the shirt from his face, using it to wipe across his chest and underarms.

“You’re awake,” he says.

“You’re observant,” Mickey retorts.

Ian rolls his eyes at him per usual. “I need to take a shower,” he replies, turning heel and heading for the still foggy bathroom.

Mickey sighs, and rolls onto his side, waiting. He knows he needs to apologize. That’s really as far as he’s gotten. He acted like a dick last night, and even told Ian he thought about banging someone else. Not the best thing to admit to after the second part of what he now realizes is just an extension of the same fight they had a couple weeks prior. Fuck, he’s so not good at this.

Ian’s shower is a brief one, and Mickey can’t help but flip onto his back so he can watch a wet Ian finish toweling himself dry and get dressed in another set of lounging-around-the-house clothes. He loves it when Ian goes commando. Such a small, stupid thing, but it always gets him hot. He shakes his head to snap out of those thoughts. Ian would probably deck him if he tried to seduce him right now.

“I know you don’t like me to say I’m sorry,” Mickey starts, calling Ian’s attention to him, “but I am. I’m sorry I acted like a fuckin’ idiot last night, and for all the stupid shit I said.”

Ian reluctantly paces forward and climbs up on the bed, sitting on the end of his side with his legs crossed. “I know you are, Mickey. You wouldn’t have come back here last night if you weren’t, but ‘sorry’ doesn’t fix everything that’s been going wrong between us lately.”

“Yeah, I know,” Mickey admits.

“And it’s not all your fault either. You’re probly thinking that it is right now, but it’s not. I don’t like the way I acted last night either. It was immature and embarrassing, and _I’m_ sorry for the way I acted too.”

“I kept pushing you. . .”

“Yeah, you did, but I didn’t have to go off like that in the first place. I probly wouldn’t have if things hadn’t been so fucking weird between us since the last fight. I don’t know that we ever properly put that one to bed.”

“You’re right. I was just thinkin’ that. It’s still the same fuckin’ fight. Why is that?”

Ian shrugs. “For me, I guess it’s mainly because you brought out all my old insecurities about relationships. I started thinking about them too much, obsessing over them. All the mistakes I’ve made. I think I wanted us to be perfect or something, but that’s not realistic. No one’s perfect, and no relationship between two people can be perfect. I was disappointed by my own expectations.”

“Why would you ever be dumb enough to think anything with me could be perfect? I’m like Exhibit A for imperfection,” Mickey says with a slight smile.

Ian let’s out a small grin as well. “Mick, stop doing that. I think highly enough of you for the both of us.”

“How can you still think highly of me after all this?” he asks sincerely.

“Because I know this is just something we have to get through. It’s the shit that’s supposed to test us to see if we can really make it.”

“You think we can?”

“I don’t know, Mick. Just because I’ve been in a few relationships, doesn’t make me an expert. They all ended for a reason, and I’ve fucked up before too. I wasn’t always the good guy in those cases, and I won’t always be with you either. We just have to learn how to communicate with each other.”

Mickey snorts at that. “Ian, I’ve done more talking with you than I have with every other person I’ve ever known in my entire life, probably combined.”

“Talking isn’t necessarily communicating if you have feelings that you’re suppressing. And again, not just you. . . me too. Fighting is normal. It’s gonna happen every once in a while, but it doesn’t have to be these big outbursts of pent up resentment. We can learn how to argue and then just get over it without getting bent out of shape for weeks. It’s not healthy, and I don’t wanna keep doing that with you. I hate what it’s been like this month, and I don’t wanna hate what we have.”

The alcohol still in his system is heightening Mickey’s vulnerability and he can fucking feel himself tearing up at the sincerity in Ian’s voice. He raises up and scoots himself over to where Ian is sitting, hesitantly reaching out for him, and he’s so glad when he unfurls from his position to accept Mickey’s advances. They lock their legs together, with Mickey’s lying astride of Ian’s extended ones, as he sits between them, and they hug each other tightly.

“I was insecure too,” Mickey says into Ian’s neck. “How could I not be? You’re too fuckin’ good for me, and I keep thinkin’ one day you’re gonna realize that, and you’ll be gone again, and there’s not gonna be a third chance. It’ll be over.”

“Mickey, I’m never gonna stop trying to convince you that you’re a good person, but you need to work on getting past your fucking inferiority complex. That’s not you talking, that’s your fucking piece of shit father and what he managed to beat into you. Stop letting that dead bastard control how you see yourself. You deserve to be happy, whether it’s with me, or some other asshole.”

“I want it to be you,” Mickey tells him. It’s easier to be open when he doesn’t have to look Ian in the eyes.

“Yeah, well, I want it to be me too,” Ian affirms, giving him a squeeze. “I definitely don’t want it to be that fucking Troy guy.”

Mickey huffs a surprised laugh. “You really didn’t like that guy, huh?”

“What’s to like?”

“ _Well_. . .”

“Shut the fuck up, Mickey, I swear to god.”

“I’m just fuckin’ with you, man. I’m sorry I said I wanted to fuck him. I didn’t. You know how I am, if I did, I would’ve and this would all be a whole lot worse right now. I’m sorry I even fuckin’ talked to him. I don’t want him, I just didn’t know how to act. I’m not used to being with anybody, and I just. . . maybe I was kind of relishing the attention, and I might’ve liked seeing you all jealous for once, since I’ve always been the one to get jealous of other dudes coming onto you. It was petty and lame of me to put you in that situation.”

“The jealous boyfriend routine is one of my least favorite relationship pitfalls. That’s one of the things I’ve hated most about this fighting between us. Jealousy is beneath us. We shouldn’t have to fear some other guy coming onto either one of us. I’m not gonna do anything. You just proved that you’re not gonna do anything. If this happens again, it’s not gonna be pretty. If nothing else, we need to have learned that lesson.”

“I don’t want anyone else touching you, though,” Mickey says, caressing Ian’s back.

“They won’t,” Ian responds, rubbing Mickey’s back in kind. “I don’t want you even thinking about fucking somebody else. Especially not someone you’ve had before. _I’m_ the one that fucks you.”

“Sounds suspiciously possessive.”

“It’s called monogamy, Mick.”

“So you’re sayin’ you want this ass to be all yours?”

Ian pulls back then, and they look each other in the eye again. “I’m sayin’ it already is.”

“Mmm, so does that make _this_ dick all mine, then?” Mickey asks, snaking a hand down to fondle Ian’s crotch.

Ian inhales sharply. “Fuck yes, it does.”

Mickey keeps rubbing on him, feeling the hardness grow beneath his palm, and he watches Ian’s pupils dilate as his breathing speeds up noticeably. “Why don’t you come fuck _your_ ass with _my_ cock then?”

Ian moans loudly, and pulls Mickey’s head toward his, crashing their mouths together hungrily. Mickey threads his fingers in Ian’s hair, yanking his head back roughly. Ian winces with a hiss, but Mickey just attacks his mouth again, until Ian pushes at him forcefully, folding him over onto his back before diving back in lips first. They make out vigorously, and Ian begins rutting against him, pressing Mickey firmly into the mattress so that he feels exquisitely trapped. He starts pulling up the edges of Ian’s shirt and manages to get it off of him, then he slips his hands down the back of Ian’s pants, clutching at his ass as it flexes with the steady thrust of his hips.

Ian’s large hands practically envelop Mickey’s whole head between them, and Mickey hooks his ankles over Ian’s calves, trying to pull him even closer so that all his weight is crushing him into the bed beneath. He moans into Ian’s mouth, and bites softly at his bottom lip, before Ian pulls away.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Mickey says in that urgent, far-gone voice reserved for when sex is just a hairsbreadth away.

Ian manhandles him upward so he can tug Mickey’s shirt off, and they both hastily remove their own pants. Mickey lays back down in his prone position, and Ian bends down on his knees over Mickey’s thick erection, leaning down and lapping at it while keeping his ass sticking up in the air, giving Mickey a nice view. Ian takes the tip into his mouth for a moment, sucking lightly and causing a ripple of ticklish pleasure to pull a hiss from Mickey’s lips. But then Ian pulls off of him.

“C’mere,” he says huskily, beckoning him with a finger.

“Come where?” Mickey asks, at a loss.

Ian flops onto his back next to him, but with his head at the end of the bed opposite Mickey, and motions for him to get on top. Mickey lifts up to move forward, but Ian shakes his head. “Other way,” he says gesturing toward his cock.

And then Mickey understands what he’s asking for. He turns and throws his right leg over Ian’s body, kneeling in a hovering position above his torso and leans forward to come down on his hands on either side of Ian’s legs, maneuvering so that his face is just above Ian’s dick. Ian moans before Mickey can even take it into his mouth, because he’s preoccupied with ogling Mickey’s ample ass, and he reaches up to squeeze the plump cheeks above him, parting them as Mickey grabs his cock and shoves his mouth down onto it eagerly.

Ian adjusts Mickey’s body so that he’s half-lying, half-hovering above him and his hard-on is within reach of Ian’s mouth. He pulls his dick toward him and leans up to suck on the tip once more, feeling and hearing Mickey’s muffled moan around Ian’s own cock. Ian reaches up and around to press gently on Mickey’s lower back so he can take him deeper, and Mickey moves until he’s perfectly in place as they suck each other off, each of them moaning rapturously around the other.

Mickey loves stuffing Ian’s dick in his mouth almost as much as he loves stuffing it in his ass. He’s never had anything against cock-sucking per say, but Ian takes it to another level for him, and he actually fucking enjoys it. Not just to be pleasing to Ian, but it gives him pleasure too. He fucking wants it. And to have his cock down Ian’s throat too, well that’s almost setting off an out-of-body experience for him. It’s one of those other random things they’ve never done together for whatever reason. Sixty-nining just isn’t one of those regular things on the menu, but now he’s having a hard time figuring out why. He tilts his head forward to get a better angle so he can slide Ian’s cock in farther, until it’s down his throat, constricting it so that it pulsates around him.

Ian’s head drops back, his mouth pulling off Mickey, the ecstasy too overwhelming, and he moans, grasping at Mickey’s ass again.

“Mmmm, Mick. . . Fuck! You’re so good at that.” He let’s it continue for another moment, but then he can’t help bursting out with, “I need to fuck you!”

Mickey immediately let’s Ian fall from his lips and crawls across the bed sinfully to get at the supplies in the nightstand on Ian’s side of the bed.

Ian watches, itching to jerk himself off to the sight of _that ass_ , but he restrains himself, because he wants the sex to last. Instead, he wraps his hand around the base of his dick and balls and squeezes himself in an attempt to stave off some of his excitement.

Mickey turns around and takes in Ian using his thumb and forefinger like a cockring, and his already large, shaved dick looks mouthwateringly huge, all squashed together like that and redder than usual.

“Oh, fuck.” Mickey whimpers.

Ian let’s go, and climbs off the bed, motioning for Mickey to come to him. Mickey steps off the mattress and onto the floor clumsily and approaches Ian, handing over the lube and condom as he reaches up to kiss him hotly once more, and they make out for a minute, until Ian pulls back again.

“Get on your knees on the edge of the bed,” he orders.

Mickey complies and leans forward on his elbows, as Ian positions himself behind him, rubbing his wood up and down Mickey’s crack teasingly while he opens the tube of lube with one hand. Mickey sighs once when the sensation disappears as Ian coats his fingers with the liquid, and sighs again when he feels those fingers take over the same task. Ian rubs around his hole for a moment before delving in with one digit. Mickey moans throatily and Ian speeds up his ministrations, sliding another finger in with the first, and twisting his knuckles so he that the pads are rubbing Mickey’s G-spot.

“Holy shit!” Mickey mutters, “Don’t fuckin’ do that unless you want me to come!”

“Sorry,” Ian rasps, retracting his hand. “You good to go?”

“Fuck yes! Get the fuck in me right now.”

Ian rips open the condom and hastily rolls it onto his erection, applying the remainder of the lube in his other hand, before he lines up at Mickey’s entrance, positioning his body so that it’s at the right height for Ian to fuck him from a standing position.

Ian pushes in roughly in one go, and all the air seems to be pushed out of Mickey’s body along with the brusque penetration. He opens his mouth wide, but no sound even comes out. He loves the familiar, but always somehow unexpected surprise of being breached and filled up. It’s so fucking sexy to him. . . just the thought of it. . . this big, hard dick taking over all his senses with one single shove.

Ian moans loudly, and Mickey’s voice seems to come back to him as Ian begins relentlessly pounding into him.

“Oh, fuck!” Mickey cries.

This angle. . . this fucking angle. . . and the thrust. . . Ian has his feet planted on firm ground and he can move in and out of Mickey faster and harder, and Mickey can’t fucking do a thing. He can’t move, because Ian’s gripping him in such a way that he’s kept firmly in place, but he doesn’t fucking care. Ian can take whatever he wants. He’ll lie there and let him have it. It’s his.

And once again it’s like there’s some kind of psychic connection between them. “Fuck yes!” Ian growls. “This ass is fucking _MINE_!”

“Oh god!” Mickey yells out. “Harder!”

Ian’s hips seem a blur as he tightens his grip on Mickey and hammers into him impossibly faster, and deeper, and so fucking hard that Mickey is seeing goddamn stars, and the slapping is louder than anything else in the room, and Mickey suddenly comes more violently than he ever has in his fucking life, he thinks, and he can feel his dick spurting the cum out over and over as if it’s never gonna fucking stop. It’s almost too much, and he’s just about to tell Ian he has to stop, but then Ian is crying out at the top of his fucking lungs, and Mickey can feel his cock pulsing inside of him, and he knows he’s coming too, and it’s all about to be over.

Ian stills against Mickey as the last waves of his orgasm ebb away, and he wants to just fall forward and crush Mickey into the fucking mattress, but he doesn’t want to hurt him, so he refrains. He grabs his waning hard-on and pulls out, wobbling into the bathroom and discarding the used condom, before grabbing a towel and heading back to Mickey. He wipes down his own crotch, and then Mickey’s still exposed asshole, since he hasn’t moved yet, then tosses it down next to him.

“You alright?” he asks, chuckling softly.

“I’m more than fuckin’ alright, Firecrotch, I’m fan-fuckin’-tastic,” Mickey murmurs.

Ian chortles again. “You gonna move and clean up your jizz, Hot Ass?” He emphasizes his words with a smack to Mickey’s still sensitive bottom.

“Fuck off!” Mickey yelps. “I think you broke me. How are you still standing?”

“I wanna lay down,” Ian replies, “but I want you to move first. Come on.” He reaches out and pulls Mickey up against his chest, and takes the towel again, so he can wipe off Mickey’s torso. He kisses him on the neck, and prods, “Go lay down.”

Mickey slowly crawls across the bed and flops down, burying his face into a pillow, and Ian uses the towel to wipe at the rest of the cum that got on the bed, before tossing it in the hamper and jumping onto the bed himself, bouncing Mickey around with the force of the motion.

Ian scoots closer to his boyfriend and lays on his side, reaching a hand out to knead Mickey’s ass some more.

“My ass is like a homing device to you,” Mickey jests.

“It is,” Ian affirms. “That ass drives me wild and I can’t stay away from it.”

“Yeah, well, right now that ass needs a rest. The brain attached to that ass is gonna go back to sleep. When it wakes up, the stomach attached to that ass is gonna need some greasy-as-fuck hangover food, and _your_ ass is gonna bring it to me.”

“Oh _really_? Didn’t I just do enough back there?”

“Maybe for my ass, you did, but not for my stomach. Sometimes you gotta give some love to the other parts of me, Gallagher.”

“Did you just say ‘love’?” Ian jokes.

“I’m sleeping now, shut the fuck up!”

  


  


*

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos deeply appreciated!
> 
> Let's be friends on [Tumblr](http://thevioletjones.tumblr.com/)
> 
> UPDATE - 11/04/17 - Part 5 of this series will be up by the holidays. :))


End file.
